THE dog was a cur; a common yellow cur.
Though to be sure there were those who, know-
ing his good qualities, for really the cur was
possessed of some very good qualities indeed,-
declared there was a strain of the shepherd in
his blood. This idea may have arisen from the
unmistakable crinkle in his big, bushy tail,
which (the crinkle I mean), later in life, won
for its owner the name of "Old Crink." At
the beginning, however, and before for love's
sake, or for sorrow's sake, he became a vaga-
bond (there are or have been men who have
done the same thing e'er this), the cur bore a

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

very different name. He was, in fact, called
" Baydaw those first years of his life, when he
hung about the farrier's shop at the heels of the
boy who gave him his unusual name. Odd it
was, too, to see the big, brown, sooted farrier
bend over to lay his broad black palm upon the
yellow cur's neck caressingly, and to hear him
say, "Baydaw, boy? Poor Baydaw, poor boy,"
for all the world so like the boy had been used
to say it that, had you known them all, the boy,
the dog, and the farrier, you had but to close
your eyes and fancy it was the little boy who
was talking to the dog, not the big horse doctor
and blacksmith at all. There came a time when
the tears would start in the big farrier's eyes as
he stooped to caress the dog; and he would in-
voluntarily look about him, over and behind the
big anvil, near the bellows, for the boy who had
been used to sit there. But there was no boy
there. Then it was the farrier would brush his
eyes with the least smutted corner of his apron
made of strong, striped bedticking, and tell the
cur to "go along now," in a tone that meant
his bone and bed were waiting over by the
slack tub under the shed outside.
But I am going too fast; far too fast. Who-

THE DOG.

ever told a story without beginning at the first ?
And the first must necessarily be the birth of
the hero ; and the hero of this story is a dog;
at least he is one of the heroes; the Fellow, who
is the other hero, we haven't come to him. Oh,

no ; the farrier was not the Fellow; nor was the
little boy who named the dog "Baydaw." We
will come to the Fellow by and by; I knew
him, and I knew the dog; sorry dogs, both of
them, some will tell; yet they were both pos-

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

sessed of their "good strains in the blood," so
said those who knew them.
But about the little boy who was not the Fel-
low; it was he who saved the dog's life. What
was the boy's name? Oh, that doesn't matter
at all. I don't remember that I ever heard his
name. At any rate, it is not necessary here;
he is in the story such a little, little while that
we will just call him "the boy." Though if
you have a dog, and love him, perhaps you will
sometimes think of the little boy who saved the
life of the farrier's dog.
It happened this way: One morning the far-
rier opened the door of his shop, and found a
litter of young dogs lying there upon the shop
floor. He wasn't a bad man, this big farrier,
neither was he a great lover of dogs. Of
course he could not have an entire family of
them housed upon him there in the shop. So
when the children around (the farrier had no
family of his own, poor, lonely old fellow!) had
set up a cry for them, he had very willingly let
them go; all but one: there had chanced to be
one dog too many; and that dog was destined
for the mill-pond. Yes, the cur was to be
drowned. You see it was before the farrier

THE DOG.

had made the acquaintance of the little boy
who saved the dog's life; after that, he would
never have drowned a dog, no, not if there had
been a dozen of them found in the shop every
day. Thus is the influence of a child a very
great, a very wonderful thing indeed. It was
the morning that the farrier was carrying the
dog off to the pond that he made the acquaint-
ance of the boy. He was passing the big brick
house upon the hill, the new house that had
been built for the president of the mill com-
pany, who had moved into it only a few days
before. It was a morning in May, and the
windows of the house stood wide open; lace
curtains floated from them, and beyond, on the
gleaming white walls, pictures rare and beauti-
ful might be seen, such as usually adorn the
homes of the rich. In the broad window-
seat a little boy was sitting; a pale, thin
little fellow with bright golden curls that lay
upon his shoulders, and made a sort of halo
about his pretty face. He was not a baby
quite, though a nurse stood beside him, and
held the slight figure safe with her strong
right arm. But he was very, very sick; the
three years of his little life had been years

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

of such suffering that his growth had been
quite dwarfed; so that he looked almost
a baby indeed, and could scarcely talk at
all.
When the bright eyes beheld the yellow ball
in the good farrier's arms he lifted his poor
little hands and called out, gaily: Baydaw;
baydaw;" and his little mother, who under-
stood every blessed word the blessed baby
said, declared at once that he had said,
"baby's dog." Which was no doubt quite
true.
When the farrier passed on the baby still
called for the dog, pointing his little finger
after the retreating figure, and crying, Bay-
daw, baydaw," with the big tears trembling
upon his cheeks.
Go and call the man back," the mother said
to the nurse-maid; and in a moment more the
big farrier, who, if he didn't love dogs, cer-
tainly did love children, was standing just out-
side the window cramming the baby arms with
the yellow ball that had been destined for
the mill-pond. The boy clapped his hands
and laughed, and called "Baydaw, baydaw,"
stroking the while the soft fur as only dog

THE DOG.

lovers can. The mother's eyes filled with
tears:
"It is the first thing he has noticed for
almost a year," she said; and then turning to
the farrier:
Would you sell it? He has been very,
very sick for so long, and the puppy pleases
him."
The big, soft-hearted farrier drew his hand
across his eyes :
"Lord love you, ma'm, and he's more than
welcome to it," said he. "I was only just
going to drown it. And I say, ma'm," the
good farrier made bold to add, "what the little
one needs is the sunshine and the air. Maybe
you'll let the girl fetch him to see me at the
shop sometimes ? Sure now, and he's a pretty
baby; a mighty pretty baby is he."
And that was how the farrier and the boy
became acquainted; and that was how the boy
saved the dog's life. Afterward, the dog showed
his appreciation of the favor by saving the
boy's life once when he fell into the mill-pond,
the same mill-pond to which the cur had been
doomed. But that isn't in the story, so we'll
let it pass.

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

The two were great friends from the very
first. The boy, romping about the yard with
his new friend, began to "mend," the farrier
called it at once. It was not long before the
nurse began to carry him down to the smithy
to see the farrier : at first, he only stayed a
little while, but soon the nurse would leave
him, and return for him just in time for dinner
at the big brick house. Sometimes the little
pale face bore the marks of the farrier's
hand, which had lingered caressingly upon the
pretty temples. Sometimes the dainty white
kilts would be decorated with the forge soot,
but nobody complained of such small things.
The boy was happy; the big smith loved
him, and the soot was only a mark of af-
fection.
As the boy grew older (did I say he was
always followed by the dog? Well, he was,
always) and began to grow strong, and to con-
verse with his big friend, the smith hunted up
an old anvil, and had it nicely cleaned, and
brought into the shop; he placed it near the
forge, and, when the boy and dog came down for
their morning call, he would dust off the anvil
with a clean apron, and say to his visitor:

THE DOG. 9

"There's your seat, sir, all waiting."
And the boy would smile and drop down
upon the smooth anvil, and then call out to the
dog:
"Lie down, Baydaw: I think the smith is
going to tell us a story."
You see the dog kept the name the boy had
given him the day he was born, "Baydaw,"
which, the boy's mother said, meant "baby's
dog."

THE BOY.

IT was wonderful, the farrier declared, the
way in which the boy began to mend after
the dog began to keep him company. In a
very little while the two might be seen, the boy
and the dog, out on the lawn, under the big
trees, strolling side by side, or chasing a ball
over the grass, or rolled up together, fast asleep,
under a great, old white oak-tree. Then they
began to pay visits to the shop alone, with
the nurse-maid watching at the gate, until the
sooty old shop had received them into its big,
black door. They came together, alone, the
day the boy put on his first pantaloons. And
such a day as it was: why, the dog was every
whit as proud as the boy; indeed he walked
down the village street at his young master's
side, with his crinkled tail hoisted over his back,
and his head carried in a way that said: "Do
10

THE BOY.

look at us, everybody We have on breeches;
we are quite men to-day." And everybody did
look; you may be sure of that. Everybody ran
to their doors, as though a circus might have
been passing; and everybody had something
pleasant to say; a smile, and, "Lord love the
little one ;" for the village folk worked in the
mill for the most part, and were very fond of
the president's only son. But the greatest
commotion was when the two friends walked
into the blacksmith's shop.
The smith was just in the act of tempering
a bit of iron, when the little master called out,
gaily, from the doorway:
Hello, Mr. Farrier Hello, sir !"
Then the farrier turned, and saw the boy, the
dog, and the first breeches, framed in by the big
door, waiting to be recognized. He dropped the
hammer upon the floor of the smithy and stared;
for the life of him he couldn't think of any-
thing appropriate to say upon such a very
smart occasion, until, suddenly, he remembered
what day it was; and then, remembering that,
and looking straight at the first breeches, he
said :
Well! if this ain't the glorious fourth! "

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

The boy laughed softly; he was very much
pleased at the farrier's surprise, and at the way
he had expressed it. He sauntered into the
shop, and took his seat on the bright old anvil
prepared for him, and began to enjoy his visit,
the dog lying at his feet. At first the silence
was a trifle embarrassing: the smith continued
to stare, and the boy smoothed the dog's back
with his small white hand.
I'm glad you like them, Mr. Blacksmith,"
said the boy after a while, with a conscious
glance at the ridiculous little bit of white linen
ending just above his tiny knee, and daring to
call itself a pair of breeches.
"Why, yes," said the farrier, "they look
uncommon well, uncommon well."
The boy blushed like a girl, and continued to
stroke the dog's back; he had never been so
embarrassed in all his little life, although he
felt so proud ; so very, very proud, indeed. As,
indeed, why shouldn't he? To be sure, he
would never wear his first pantaloons for the
first time, again; not in all his life, however
long it might be. Still, it was embarrassing;
he stroked the dog's back and smiled. Sud-
denly his face lighted:

THE BOY.

"This is a nice dog you have given me,"
said he. A very nice dog, sir."
Glad you like him, sir," said the smith.
He does look uncommon well now, walking
along in the company of them new breeches."
"And he has a nice tail," said the boy; who
was rather more anxious to talk dog than he
was to talk breeches. His tail has a nice
crinkle to it. I always liked his tail, farrier."
"Yes," said the farrier, I believe you did."
Then there was another long silence; in
which the smith looked at the boy (a twinkle in
his eye), and the boy looked at his first breeches
(a smile in his eye), and the dog looked at them
both, as though he considered they were both
rather easily embarrassed about so very small
a matter.
I always liked his tail," the boy repeated;
and then there was more silence. Suddenly
the smith tossed his hammer aside, and brushed
away the iron that had been left to cool upon
the anvil:
I say now," said he. You ought to have
a holiday to-day; you surely ought ; wearing
your first breeches, and all that. There's a
circus coming to town to-day, and I move that

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

we shut up the shop and take those new
breeches to see the show."
The boy bounded to his feet:
"Oh, Mr. Farrier," said he, "do you think
we might go? And could Baydaw go along,
too ? He never saw a circus, and I am sure he
would like it."
"Why," said the smith, "he might, and wel-
come, but the rogues would steal him, like as
not."
Oh," said the boy, then we can't go. I'm
so sorry. I would like to see a circus."
"We might lock him up here in the shop
till we got back," said the smith; but the boy
shook his head.
I don't think," said he, "that we should
like to be parted to-day."
"Then," said the smith, "we'll fetch him
along, and take the risk. But you must be
sure to keep an eye upon him; these circus
fellows are mighty bad about dogs, I have
always heard."
So with this understanding they went off for
a holiday, the first of many they took together.
It was the only way, the good farrier declared,
in which he could do proper respect to the first

THE BOY.

breeches. They saw the lions and the royal
Bengal tiger, the camels, and the cinnamon bear
that kept time to the squeaky notes of a wheezy
flute. Then they saw a man climb a trapeze, a
thing any college boy can do better these days

of athletics ; and then they went outside and
had a watery lemonade, which the smith de-
clared was very like a Sunday school picnic,
" because they had forgotten to put any lemon
in the lemonade." And at every stop they

16 THE FARRIER'S DOG.

made, and every treat he offered, the farrier
would ask:
Will the new breeches have some of this ? "
Or, "Will the new breeches look at this?"
"Would the breeches like to see the bearded
woman? Will the breeches take a peep at
the Queen of Sheba ?" Would the breeches
like to see the Sleeping Beauty?" Thus im-
pressing upon the boy's mind that the great
day was in honor of the first pantaloons, and
that all courtesies extended were extended to
the breeches. In short, it was a kind of first
breeches celebration, as though any boy was
likely to forget the day he put on his first
breeches.

THE THIEF'S DOG.

ONE morning the boy sat on the anvil draw-
ing the dog's bushy tail between his palms.
"He has a nice tail," said he. "I always
liked his tail; it has a nice crinkle to it."
The smith was busy at the forge and did not
reply at the moment. Suddenly the boy called
out in his clear little treble :
"Farrier," said he, "can you tell me why it
is a boy always likes a dog ? "
The farrier let go the bellows pump, and
rubbed his forehead with his long, smutty fore-
finger:
Well, now," said he, to gain time, "is that a
riddle, or is it plain facts ? "
"No," said the boy, "that isn't a riddle; it is
just a plain question."
"Well, then," said the smith, "it's because
17

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

he can beat the dog when he feels like it, I'm
thinking."
The boy bounded to his feet and looked the
farrier squarely in the eye. "That isn't it at
all," said he. You've guessed worse than I
ever thought you would. Why, sir, a boy loves
a dog because a dog always loves a boy; if he
is half nice to him. I reckon it's easy to get a
dog to love you. Why, I have heard of dogs
that loved beggars, and bootblacks, and even
- thieves."
"Sure," said the farrier, "and it's right you
are. Now, once-" he seized the bellows pump
again, and began pumping with all his might;
he pumped away until the coals on the forge
were a good red glow before he opened his lips
for another word. The boy dropped back on
his old anvil and threw his arms about the dog's
neck with a delighted little chuckle.
"Lie down, Baydaw," said he. "I think the
farrier is going to tell us a story."
The farrier thrust a bar of iron into the heart
of the red coals, and while waiting for it to heat,
for the farrier never wasted time, not even in
telling stories, said:
"Now once, over in my town in No'th

THE THIEF'S DOG.

Kelliny, there was a man, said to be the mean-
est man ever raised. Wouldn't anybody have
anything to do with him. Nobody knew where
he come from; jest kind o' dropped down there,
as it were, and put up. Lived in a little house

at one end of the town. And they used to tell
on him that he was that mean the varmints in
that end o' town, sech as rats and mice, and
toad frogs, all got up and moved out when he
opened up there. They told awful tales about

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

him: wouldn't a boy in town pass that house
after dark if he could help it; they didn't like
to pass in the daytime; and when they jest
had to pass it, they went by in a pretty peart
trot, I can tell you."
"They ran ? cried the boy. "Do you mean
to say they ran by the house, in the broad open
daylight ?"
The smith drew the red-hot bar from the
coals, and, holding it across the anvil, began to
tap it with his iron hammer:
Clink-clink-clinkety-clink!
It was a great annoyance to the boy to have
the hammer continually interrupting conversa-
tion in this way, but the hammer had work to
do: the smith might idle away his time with a
boy and a dog, but as for the iron hammer -
Clink-clink-clinkety-clink!
At last the bar was in the coal bed again; the
smith drew his sleeve across his brow, and began
at precisely the point at which he had left off
his story. That was one good thing about the
smith, the boy always said: "he never forget
where he left off"
"They ran," said he, "as fast as their legs
could carry of them."

THE THIEF'S DOG.

"Did did you run, farrier?" said the boy,
anxiously watching the iron bar that would soon
be getting hot again. The farrier scratched his
head: he wished this one boy to think he was
not a coward; had never been a coward; yet
was he a truthful old farrier.
"Well, now," said he, "this here story is
about the thief : the thief and the other fellows;_
it isn't my story; if it was my story-"
Oh said the boy. And then -
Clink-clink-clinkety-clink.
The boy almost hated that industrious old
hammer.
Clink-clink-clinkety-clink.
I'd tell it different; said the smith, begin-
ning again where he left off. There was no-
body in the town could abide that man. He
was poor as a church mouse; folks used to
wonder why he didn't starve to death. He
surely didn't have any way of getting an hon-
est living, they said. You see that is how bad
stories get a-going. If a man or a woman won't
work, people begin to wonder how they live.
Then they begin to talk, then to keep an eye
upon them, and first thing you know somebody
has lost a character. So they began to watch

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

this fellow I'm telling you about, and after
'while they began to say he stole. Then they
shunned him more than ever. And everything
that happened in that town they were pretty
apt to think he done it. That's another thing
you got to notice as you go along. When a
fellow gets a bad name, it accumulates a good
deal of dirt as it goes along."
"It what ? said the boy.
"Why, it's this way. Give a man a bad
name and he'll be accused of everything bad
comes his way; that's it. So they laid lots o'
things to the charge of this fellow in my town;
and they got so they wouldn't so much as.no-
tice him, let alone speak to him. And there
was some talk of driving him out of the town.
And one day "
Clink-clink-clinkety-clink.
Oh, that hammer The boy wished the far-
rier would toss it out of the door with all his
might; he knew it must fall squarely into the
slack tub at the door, if the smith should
fling it away. Then he laughed softly at the
thought of the big hammer flying out the shop
door, and of the good smith with nothing to
do but to sit with his big hands folded all day.

THE THIEF'S DOG.

Then the little face grew grave again. There was
something awesome in the thought of the strong
hands folded idly all day. It must be a very
terrible thing, too, that would make the smith
throw away his hammer. He remembered once
seeing a man buried. It was his uncle, and he
was buried by some men who wore white aprons
and gloves. His father had told him that they
were "free masons," a great and good order of
men to which his uncle.had belonged. And on
the lid of his uncle's coffin were laid an apron
and a pair of gloves too, like those the men
wore. When he asked his father about it he
had said, "He will not need them any more."
So, it seemed to him, it might be when his
good friend, the smith, should throw away his
hammer.
Clink-clink-clinkety-clink.
A dog took up with him." The bar was
finished now, and the farrier finished the story
without further interruption from the hammer.
" One day a dog took up with him. It was an
ugly kind of a brute, and he must have been
pretty well starved all along; but somehow it
stuck to that fellow like as they'd been kind of
kin. Better, for a fellow's kin ain't always the

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

ones as sticks when a fellow's needy. But the
dog stuck; 'stuck and starved,' the folks used
to say. Why, he'd snarl at a boy if he ran past
the house, and show his teeth if a body dared
to look over his shoulder doubtful like at the
dog's master. And once the fellow got sick
and nobody'd go nigh him but that dog. And
the critter actually stole for him. He stole the
victuals off the stove where the women-folks
was cooking, and sneaked the bread out of the
baker's window. And once, when he couldn't
find anything better, he stole a live hen and car-
ried it home in his mouth.
"They said the fellow was good to the dog,
in his way, though he must have had a hard lot,
even if he got no cuffing. The fellow got well
at last, thanks to the dog's keeping, and one
night he broke into a house, and he got shot
while trying to get out after the folks waked
and gave the alarm. And the town buried of
him, and was saying 'good riddance,' with just
one mourner to follow the old sexton, who
crammed the cheap pine coffin into the ground,
and threw the dirt over it. That mourner was
the dog. The last that town ever saw of him
was the day he followed the corporation's dead-

THE THIEF'S DOG. 25

wagon out to the pauper graveyard. That is to
say, it was the last they ever saw of him in that
town. They saw him at the graveyard, months
afterwards; just a little heap of white bones
lying across the old rogue's grave. Yes, sir;
it's curious how a dog will take to folks -"
Clink the smith had taken up his hammer
and was trying it lightly, thoughtlessly, upon
the cold anvil. This set the boy to thinking,
and to asking questions.
Farrier," said he, do you think anything
could ever happen that would make you throw
your hammer away? I've been thinking a good
deal about that while I was waiting between
times for the story you have been telling me.
It was a nice story, and I am much obliged to
you. I always like to hear stories about dogs.
And while I was waiting for this one, I got to
wondering if anything could make you throw
your hammer out the door. It would be sure
to fall in the slack tub, I think."
"Well, now," said the good smith, "it
would need to be something very dreadful, I'm
thinking,"-he rubbed the hammer's cold nose
with his palm, in a half caressing way, for a
good workman is always more or less fond of his

26 THE FARRIER'S DOG.

faithful tools, "something very, very dreadful,
sir."
Yet, in less than six months -
Clink-clink-clinkety-clink the smith was at
work again.

THE DOG'S MESSAGE.

ONE morning the boy failed to come to the
shop, although the sun shone and the south
wind blew warm across the southern hills.
From time to time the farrier glanced at the
empty anvil where his friend was accustomed to
sit, with Baydaw at his feet, and wondered that
the place should seem so lonely. More than
once he went to the door, and stood under the
shed outside, his smutty hand before his eyes,
watching the street for his little friend and the
yellow dog. He even looked at the low iron
gate up the street to see if the nurse-maid's cap
might be visible while she stood watching the
young master. But, no; there was no sign of
either friend or dog; and at noon the smith
shut the shop door and went back to doctor a
sick horse, and did not return all the day.
The next morning the boy again failed to
27

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

make his appearance. The smith glanced at
the empty anvil time and again. More than
once he turned to speak to the boy who
"ought," he declared, "to be there." Finally
he crossed the shop, and jerking an old, cast-
off apron from a nail in the wall, he threw it
over the empty seat and went back to look after
a horseshoe he had left in the fire.
But, somehow, to-day the hammer didn't ring
to suit him. He tried it upon the glowing shoe,
then he tried it upon the anvil. Then suddenly
he lifted it above his head, and tossed it from
him with such force that he sent it flying
through the door, where it circled three times
in the air, and fell with a soft little sizzling
squarely into the slack tub, and sank out of
sight.
But the farrier did not notice. He did not
even remember that he had told the little boy
that it must be a very dreadful thing that would
cause him to throw away his hammer. He was
too busy taking off, or trying to take off, his
apron. He had resolved to go up to the big
house of the president and ask what was the
matter.
As he gave the apron-strings a jerk, a shadow

THE DOG'S MESSAGE.

fell across the doorway, and something brushed
the good smith's legs. When he looked down
and saw the yellow cur Baydaw, he was so upset
that he jerked the apron-strings into such a
hopelessly hard knot that he had to cut them
apart by and by.
Baydaw rubbed his head against the smith's
legs and whined. The smith stooped, and took
from the dog's mouth the bit of white paper
which the boy's mother had folded into a note
and placed there. The farrier wasn't a scholar,
but he made out that his little friend was very
sick, and had sent for him to come up to the
house. He didn't stop to remove his apron, or
to get his hat from the nail, or to fasten the
shop door. Indeed, there were those who said
he even carried his hammer; but how could he,
with the hammer at the bottom of the slack
tub ? He went, however, at once, his big form
followed up the hill by the dog who had been
sent to fetch him.
That noon, when the smith returned to the
shop, the first thing he did was to lift the empty
anvil that had been the boy's seat, and to heave
it out of the back door into a hole there, and
cover it over with leaves and earth, so that he

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

couldn't see it again. Though how could he
see anything, gruff old soft-heart that he was,
with the big tears blinding his eyes.
The little boy had been very, very sick. His
father had sat by his bed all the long night,
while his mother had knelt at the other side
praying. He had talked a good deal to them:
he was a very sensible little fellow, and very
loving and full of faith in his parents. At
nine o'clock in the morning the doctor told
them he was to have anything that he called
for.
Nothing can hurt him now," the doctor had
said. And, hearing this, the boy had called out
in his pretty, clear voice :
I should like to see my old friend the far-
rier, if you please, papa."
And so the farrier was sent for at once; at
the boy's request they sent the dog to fetch
him, with the note the mother had written.
When the big, burly figure of the smith
appeared in the door, the boy held out his
little white hand and called to his friend:
I've sent for you to give you back your
dog, farrier," said he; and the cur, as though
he understood, crept close to the bed's side, in

THE DOG'S MESSAGE.

easy reach of the hand extended to stroke the
soft, silky fur.
He is a nice dog, and I like him very much,
sir, and I've sent for you to give him back to
you."
"There, there now," said the farrier, "what-
ever am I to do with him, without you to keep
him out of the mill-pond ?"
The boy smiled; he knew well that his dog
would never be in danger of the mill-pond
again.
"He is a nice dog, and he has a beautiful
tail. I always liked his tail, farrier."
"Sure, sir, I believe you always did," said
the farrier, "and I hope, sir, as you always
may."
The boy seemed not to be listening for a
moment, though the small hand continued to
stroke the cur's head:
Baydaw ?" The dog started up, and licked
the tiny fingers.
"His tail has a beautiful crinkle," the voice
was low, and the words softly spoken; for
the boy's strength was almost spent. The
next moment he rallied, and asked them please
to send for his old friend the farrier; he was

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

quite sure the dog could bring him. The father
moved aside, and motioned the smith to stand
nearer the bed, and speak to the child. But
the boy saw him, and was the first to speak:
"Why, farrier," said he, "I thought you
were crying. It would be odd to see a black-
smith cry, I think."
"Very odd, sir," said the smith; "very odd,
indeed. I misdoubts they don't cry very often,
sir."
No," said the boy, "but mothers do. Mine
cried all night. You won't forget to take the
dog along with you, farrier?"
Sure, sir, I'll keep him all right till.you
come after him," said the smith.
Oh, but I am going away," cried the boy.
"I shall not come to the shop again, because
I am going very far away. But mother says I
needn't be afraid at all, and I am not; because
mother wouldn't tell me if it was not all right.
But I cannot take my dog, so I give him back
to you. Father, dear, give me your hand on
this side, please. And, come closer, farrier;
I can't seem to see you. You'll keep the dog
for old times ? I can't come to your shop again,
but I'll not forget you, farrier."

THE DOG'S MESSAGE.

The big farrier did not reply: he could not
have said a word though life had hung upon his
speaking. He could only choke back the great
sob that rose in his throat, and put out his big,
grimy hand to feel for the dog's head. His
great fingers touched the tiny ones of the little
boy, who had grown into his big man's heart in
such a very little while. The little boy who had
taught him that even a dog may be a thing of
affectionate care. The small fingers scarcely
moved, though the lips did, ever so faintly:
He has a nice tail. I always liked his tail.
You will not forget, farrier? "
The farrier leaned over the bed to reply, but
drew back, with a low cry of pain, as though
something had hurt him. The little boy had
gone upon that -long journey of which he had
said he was "not afraid."

A VAGABOND.

IT was a day in August. A hot, sultry day,
when work was not to be thought of, and even
play was a burden. A group of idle boys sat
upon the curbstone of a pavement before the
door of the very last house of a street that led
into the heart of the city. The boys were not
plotting any great mischief; they were only
idle, loafing about the street in mischief's way.
So, when mischief came in sight, they were not
slow to grasp it. They were talking of the
river a little further on, and of the swimming
there, and calculating, coolly, the ways and
means of getting there and back in sufficient
time to throw suspicion off their tracks, when
again they should confront their mothers.
There are some circumstances in which boys
of a certain class are ripe for any mischief they
may chance upon. The present was one of that
34

A VAGABOND.

class of circumstances, and these boys were of
just that class. While they sat there on the curb-
stone, waiting, planning, a dog came into view.
A yellow, wobegone, weary looking dog, covered
with the dust and dirt of the road. There were
blood-stains upon his yellow jacket, and poor
dumb wounds that told without words the cruel

adventures of the highway. He had a fright-
ened, hang-dog look about him, too, and his red
tongue protruded from between his foam-flecked
jaws, as he panted for breath. Evidently, in
spite of his sorrows, the dog had made sport
somewhere for some cruel Philistines; for his
once long, bushy tail was shaved, leaving it
quite clean of hair, except for the shaggy
bunch at the end. His body had been treated

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

in the same way: it was quite smooth, except
for the big, shaggy mane around his neck. He
was a most comical looking dog, indeed, and a
still more comical looking lion. There was
a wild something in the furtive, frightened
glance that he shot here and there, as if mind-
ful of the chance stone; or, it might be, the
friendly hand extended.
When the dog first came into view one of
the boys upon the curbstone bounded to his
-feet, and shouted:
"A lion! "
Instantly the others followed his lead; there
was not a boy among them but recognized the
comical idea that had transformed the yellow
cur into the tawny lion. In an instant they
raised a cry, and the dog took to its heels, with
every boy after him. As they ran, each boy
seized a stone. At last the idle ones had
found something with which to amuse them-
selves. They ran straight for the city, and,
before they had gone half a block, they were
joined by others, who grasped their stones like-
wise, and raised their cry.
People ran out of their houses to see what
was the matter, and a woman, seeing the hurry-

A VAGABOND.

ing crowd, with a stray dog fleeing from its
missiles, rushed through her gate, and dragged
a little child in off the pavement. As she did
so, she unconsciously, without malice, shouted:
" Mad dog !"
That was quite enough; the crowd doubled
in two minutes, and the poor, weary, homeless
cur was to make a last struggle for his life.
To the boys who had started the chase it was
such fun ; such fun for the boys; such certain
death for the dog.
At one end of a particularly crowded business
street, a bootblack had a stand. It wasn't a
particularly imposing stand; merely a chair
which could be folded up and shoved into a
niche in the walls, a stool for customer's feet
to rest upon, a box, and some brushes. The
chair was elevated upon a small platform, that
had been a box; one end of it still open. Into
this the bootblack sometimes thrust the imple-
ments of his profession when it rained, or when
he had occasion to run down the street a
moment. A lady sat in the bootblack's chair;
she had stepped into a puddle, in crossing
the street, that the city sprinkler had made.
The bootblack wasn't accustomed to blacking

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

the boots of women. He didn't know how to
manage their feet exactly; and this was such
a small foot that it was quite lost in the palm
of his big hand. She wasn't a rich woman, evi-
dently; just a thoroughly neat and cleanly one.
She wore a dress of the plainest gray serge,
and her gloves had been freshly darned. She
would, probably, walk home, to some distant
part of the suburbs, to save the car fare that
would go towards payment for the bootblacking.
Yet, there was that about her face, the look of
her eyes, and the shape of her mouth, that cor-
responded to that something in her character
which could not tolerate the muddy shoe,.and
made the boy recognize the fact that she
was a gentlewoman, notwithstanding the plain
attire.
He took the small foot between his palms,
and began to brush. While at his task he
heard shouts, and, glancing up, he saw the
hurrying crowd of boys, and the flying stones
and sticks. Now," said he, "I wonder what
them boys is a-chasin' of ; like as not it's a cat;
or else a boy what's littler 'n they be, and can't
get out o' the way. I declare for it, boys is so
mean; some boys."

A VAGABOND,

The lady said nothing; she was. .'..'..1., the
bootblack, whose gaze was fixed i i n that
speck of flying yellow fur h..lr inl down the
street.
"I declare," he shouted, "if it ain't a dog
they're chainn. N.itii.' but a poor, lame cur.
Boys is so mean; some boys."
The dog was limping now, but irn-i -. all
possible haste. A flying stone had struck one
of his hind legs. The lady -1;i1 said nothing;
she was watching the bootblack, .Ct4.in- his
character it might be. The crowd came nearer;
the shouts became more distinct ; there was but
one cry:
"AMad dog! hit him kill him! .7. / dog."
Suddenly the hunted, doomed ihi-,. lifted its
weary, dust-blinded eyes to the pavement, and
saw the boy and the woman. In -t'-iiiL, as though
heaven itself had directed its steps, the cur es-
caped behind the legs of the men who had come
out to see what was the occasion of the uproar,
and darted into the open end of the box upon
which rested the bootblack's chair. The boy
gasped, and turned to the lady; her eyes
were fixed upon his; clearly, each was study-
ing the other. The study lasted but an in-

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

stant, and then the lady dropped the skirt of
her gray serge dress over the opening into
which the dog had disappeared. The boy
gasped again, and was about to speak; but
quickly the small, freshly darned glove touched
his arm :
"Do you just be quiet," said the strange
.customer. "And now black that other boot,
and be quick "
The boy gave a low whistle; he recognized
that they were fellow conspirators for the life
of the dog. The next moment he fell to work
blacking away for dear life, the very busiest
bootblack that ever plied a brush. And the
crowd, jeering, shouting, brandishing their sticks
and gathering their stones, passed on. They
had lost track of the dog. Neither had they
taken special notice of the industrious boy
blacking the boots of the crossest lady ever
seen, if looks went for anything. They wouldn't
have dared speak to her, still less have dared
ask her to let them look under her skirts for a
runaway mad dog, a vagabond cur. They passed
on, suspecting nothing, and for the time the dog
was safe. When they were gone the lady said,
" That will do now," in her own pleasant voice,

A VAGABOND.

and gave the boy a coin. The bootblack shook
his head ; somehow he still felt that they were
fellow plotters; he could not think of charging
her anything. Besides, he had seen the gloves
with their fresh patches.

"The boots was so little, ma'm," he said,
"they warn't worth nothing' nohows."
The lady smiled; her eyes were very soft
and tender now, and there was an unmistakable
mist in their blue depths. She knew this boy

H-15E-11IEL Lill

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

was poor, very, very poor; and then there was
the cur under the box.
What will you do with him ?" she asked,
making a little gesture downward.
The boy shook his head again.
I dunno; but I'll keep them there boys
off'n him, sure."
The mist was gathering in the lady's blue
eyes; clearly she must get away.
"Well," said she, still holding out the coin,
"when that crowd of young ruffians is safely out
of sight, buy the dog a bone with that. You
may tell him it is his dinner, with my compli-
ments."
And before the boy could speak she was
gone, and the bit of silver was lying upon the
seat of the chair which she had lately occupied.
The bootblack looked at it quizzically.
"Women is so good," he declared, as he
bent over his brushes; "women is so good.
But boys is mean," he added indignantly.
" Boys is so mean; some boys."

THE FELLOW.

THE bootblack argued wisely that he had
best let the dog be until sure the hunt for him
was over.
"It won't hurt him none to rest a bit, I'll be
bound," he told himself; "and then maybe
he'll eat his dinner, with the compliments of the
lady; and I'll fetch him home with me to live."
There was a note of exultation in the boy's
voice; all his life long he had wished for a dog.
He had been too poor ever to own one; but
now that one had actually come to him, made a
claim upon his humanity, as it were, he felt
that he had no choice but to adopt the stray.
Then, too, there was nobody whose permission
he had to obtain ; he was all alone in the world,
had always been so, so far as he knew. He
remembered that once when a little boy he had
run away from a family who claimed to have
43

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

picked him up on the streets, where he had
been deserted. They had treated him misera-
bly, and at last he had run away. Another
boy, a street gamin like himself, had instructed
him in the art of bootblacking, and had pre-
sented him with his own outfit when a farmer
had volunteered to give him work and a home
at his place in the country. The boy's business
was not a large one, but he had managed to
pay for a little room in a shanty at the end of a
quiet street in the rougher part of the city.
True, he had only a pallet there, but the room
was his own, the pallet big enough for two, and
the dog, "the other stray," he called it, was
welcome to share both with him.
The dog would doubtless go hungry many
times, but he would always have his part of the
pallet, that was certain; and it was the best
the boy could do ; nobody can do more.
He wouldn't have invited a dog to come and
live with him on those terms, but if one chose
to come of his own accord, why, that was quite
another matter.
He couldn't quite feel, however, that the
dog's life was secure from the mob of boys who
had been chasing him. He felt that they would

THE FELLOW.

come back to look for him; indeed, they had
cast more than a passing glance at the big box
as they went by; it was the presence of the
lady, and her very cross air, perhaps, that had
prevented their stopping to search. He was
right; the boys had lost track of the dog, and
having lost him the men who had come out to
look on began to laugh at them, and to call out
to them to know where their mad dog had gone.
At last they determined to retrace their steps;
the dog had clearly dodged, not escaped. They
went straight back to the bootblack. He was
busily cleaning his brushes when the leader of
the gang stopped to accost him :
I say now, have you seen a dog?"
The bootblack looked up.
Many's the one," said he.
The other boys began to laugh.
"I say now," said the first one, "have you
seen a stray? A runaway dog pass this way?"
"A mad dog, you better say," chirped in the
boy who had been the first to discover "the
lion" at the end of the street.
Oh," said the bootblack, "you mean that
there ugly mad dog you was all running' after
awhile ago ? Is it him you've lost ?"

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

"Yes," they cried, "did he come this way?"
"You bet your life he did," said the boot-
black. "You ought to know that, you was Ill
following' of him."
"But we lost him," said the leader. "We
lost him right along here. Which way did he
go?"
The bootblack stepped to the edge of the
pavement and looked up the street.
"As nigh as I can make out," said he, "I
was busy at that time, but nigh as I can make
out, he come straight down that there street,
and he was headed for that way, fast as his
legs could carry him. I think he met his
friends somewhere down the street, and they
took him; anyhows I'd think you boys had
better mind how you gits to chasing' other peo-
ple's dogs; first thing you know, you'll find
yourselves in trouble."
"Shucks!" said one, "this was just a mad
-dog. We're goin' to find him and kill him."
"Well," said the bootblack, "the last I seen
of him he was headed that there way," and the
bootblack pointed down the street. A moment,
and the crowd had disappeared, down street,
also, bent upon finding the unlucky vagabond

THE FELLOW.

that was at that moment hidden safely in the
box of his new friend.
The boy let him be until noon. Then he
stepped down the street a little way and bought
some meat at a butcher's stall. When he went
back he stooped down upon his knees to look
at his new companion. The dog was lying
stretched out upon the bottom of the box, still
too weary and bruised to stir. Such a dilapi-
dated dog, so torn and broken and covered with
dust and foam, you would have to look again,
and yet again, before you were ready to admit
that the poor, miserable stray was Baydaw, the
petted treasure of the little boy who died.
Yet it was he. What misfortune, what un-
lucky turn of fate had cast him out upon the
charity of the world ? And where was our good
friend, the farrier, who had promised to care for
the creature left him ? The bootblack knew
nothing of the cur's history, to be sure. He
only knew that he had stumbled upon a thing
in need, "a weary fellow creature," he called it,
and with a grace well becoming more lucky
mortals, he bowed his shoulders for the burden
misfortune had thrown in his path. He re-
mained upon his knees looking in at the tired

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

creature, his own lonely heart going out with a
great pity for the friendless vagabond.
"Poor fellow," said he, coaxingly. Poor
old fellow; he's jist frazzled out, that's what
he is."
The quick instinct of the brute detected the
friendly tone in the voice. The shaggy head
was lifted, and the poor, dilapidated tail made a
feeble attempt to acknowledge the sympathy by
a friendly wag.
"There, there, now," said the boy, "come
out, can't you,-and take a bite o' dinner? The
lady said you was to, and them's her compli-
ments. Will you come out now?" He was
talking to him as though he'd been a human
being. He always talked to the dog so, always
after that. He began it that first day, and he
always kept it up. It seemed as though the
dog understood, too, for with a great effort, and
after falling back more than once, he staggered
to his feet, and crept out upon the pavement.
Poor fellow, indeed. Poor, poor fellow. Could
this dilapidated thing be the fat, fortunate Bay-
daw? Ah, farrier, how you have neglected
your trust The bootblack coaxed the dog off
to a corner, near by, and fed him the bits of

THE FELLOW.

meat he had bought for him, talking the while
in a gentle, coaxing way, to which the poor tail
responded as gracefully as its tattered condition
would permit.
"Poor fellow," said the boy, "poor fellow;
he's a stray, too, that he is. Picked up off'n

the streets, too, same as me. I reckon we're
like one another ; no folks, no home, no nothing ;
I reckon we'refellows."
And right there, if you please, is where the
" Fellow" enters the story. The dog ate his
dinner greedily, if not gracefully, for he was
a hungry dog, indeed, and all the while the

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

shaven tail was busy making acknowledg-
ments.
I reckon a boy and a dog is most alike any-
how," said the bootblack; "only there's this
difference: if a dog gits tired of it he can up
and die, but a boy he's got to fight it out
somehows" "It" meaning life, poor fellow.
" But we'll stand by one another I reckon, and
try to be real fellows, maybe? And the poor
tail made the proper acknowledgment.
"That's a nice tail," said the boy, and then
the dog looked up. There certainly was some-
thing familiar in that compliment. "Yes, sir,
that's a right nice tail, or would be if it was
let to grow out again. It's got a real crinkle
to it. Say, now! I wonder if some little boy
somewhere ain't been sort o' fond o' you, any-
how ?"
Was it fancy, or did the big, dust-blinded
eyes look up knowingly ? Were there tears in
them? Was the poor stray thinking of the
dear, dear little boy who had thought that such
a lovely crinkle ? Was he wondering where
the boy had gone? Did he know that those
he had left behind would have spared them-
selves many luxuries to have at that moment

THE FELLOW.

possessed themselves of that same bushy tail
and its owner, dilapidated though he was ?
The stray lay under the box all the long hot
afternoon. At dark the bootblack stooped and
called to him softly:
Crink ? said he, Crinkle, old boy ? It's
time we was a-gettin' home with us."
That night they lay on the pallet together,
the dog and his fellow. The bruises were
bound up, and the injured leg doctored a bit,
and then they had a bite of supper, and lay
down to rest. The dog curled up thankfully at
the Fellow's feet, safe from stones and sticks
and those other ills that follow the fortunes,
or misfortunes, of a stray. The bootblack had
never been so happy, the dog, perhaps, never
so grateful. This was the first of their days
together, and a fair example of many that fol-
lowed. They were fast friends, and faithful.
Sometimes there was but a crust, but it was
conscientiously divided into two equal parts;
and once when the crust was quite too small to
think of dividing, the boy went supperless.
They had a hard lot, both of them ; for the
boy was miserably poor; and then, strive as he
would to protect his friend, there were times

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

when the dog suffered from abuse. His first
enemies, the street boys, would not forget that
he was a stray, a vagabond. They felt priv-
ileged to abuse him. But, notwithstanding his
hard lot, the cur began after awhile to look
more like himself. -His tail began to grow out,
and the old crinkle came back, more wavy,
more glossy, more bushy than ever. If only
he had not been so lean he would have been a
very nice looking dog indeed. His leanness
was deplorable; it was the result of starvation.
" Slow starvation," the bootblack said; and
whenever he said it, and ran his fingers over
the dog's yellow coat and felt the ribs sharp
and forbidding, he would fight the tears back
and "allow they'd have better luck another day."
Anyhow, we're fellows," he would declare.
"We'll fight it out together. And if I go first,
or am like to, I'll send you off along ahead o'
me. But by an easy route, you may make sure
o' that. I won't leave you for the boys to
worry, that I won't."
It was a well-known thing to him that every
time the dog went out without his master he
was stoned or beaten; and once he had come
back with a little patch of his skin burnt off,

THE FELLOW.

where some hard-hearted cook had thrown hot
water upon him.
"Boys is mean," said the bootblack, when the
dog came in with his scald to be doctored;
" boys is mean, some boys; but they ain't nigh
so mean as cooks is."
Yes, they had rather a sorry time of it, those
two; but they were happier for each other.
They were fellows, indeed, as the boy said;
fellows in hunger, in homelessness, in cold, in
misfortune. And all the while they were get-
ting leaner, both of them, and less able to
"fight it out," as the boy expressed it. The
dog proved most valuable those days; he car-
ried the bootblack's tools for him; ran
errands right wisely, for a dog; and when he
could dodge .his tormentors, the street gamins,
he was upon the whole rather a happy dog.
But the boys continued to torment him; they
called him "old Crink," because of the tail, and
he was getting to be quite famous in their cir-
cles as something to be "shied at," that is,
rocked. Yet he was faithful to his "fellow,"
the boy who had rescued him. As he had
loved his first little master, so was he grateful
to his second.

OLD ACQUAINTANCES.

ONE morning in spring, when the dog and
boy had been fellows for almost a twelve-
month, the bootblack sat down upon his own
empty chair, and thought over his prospects.
Things had never looked quite so bad. A boy
with a flaming new outfit had opened up a stand
at the next corner. His own customers were
all stopping there. His chair hadn't had an
occupant now for three days, except such as
the boy had taken for charity. His rent would
soon be falling due, there wasn't a crust in his
cupboard.
See here, now," said he, in a way he had of
talking to himself, see here, now, first thing
we know that there dog will starve." He was
thinking of the dog, poor fellow, not of himself.
And as though his thought might have been a
prayer (they very often are, I think), and an
54

OLD ACQUAINTANCES.

answer had been sent at once, at that very
moment a gentleman came down the street and
stopped.
"Hello," said he, busy ?"
"Busy doin' nothing, said the boy, as he
darted down and offered the chair to the gen-
tleman.
"Shine, sir ?"
He brushed away industriously, and so care-
fully that the man took note of him after awhile,
and of the yellow cur lying near by intently
watching the operation, as though he under-
stood a bite of beef was coming nearer and
nearer with every movement of his good Fel-
low's arm.
"Is that your dog?" said the stranger.
That ? said the Fellow, "why that's my
pardner, sir," with very honest pride in the
statement.
Your partner, eh ? And where did you pick
him up?"
Right there on that idintical spot where
he's a-layin'," was the reply. I sort of ris-
cued him from the mob, so to speak. If you
doubts it, ask him. He's a nice dog, if the
boys would let him be. But boys is mean;

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

some boys. Now, I tell you, a good dog is
better company than a bad boy, times out o'
mind. They worries that dog a-mighty nigh to
death, jist because he's a stray, and nobody
to have 'em up about it. That's the way boys
is, some boys. Crink there knows, don't you,
son?" The dog looked and wagged his bushy
tail.
"We're fellows," the boy went on. "That
there dog and me are fellows; we's both had a
tolerable steep hill to climb. He's got sense,
though, I tell you. He knows this here shine
means beef for supper, hey, Crink ? "
They talked on until the boots had been care-
fully polished : the customer hadn't said much,
just enough to make the bootblack talk. He
liked the boy, somehow. So when this new
acquaintance left the chair he put a half dollar
in the boy's hand.
Never mind now about the change," said
he, "but go and spend every cent of it for a
supper for you -you- 'fellows.'" He pointed
to the dog, and before the astonished bootblack
had recovered his breath the man was gone.
Then the boy turned to the dog:
"Never you mind, son," said he, "when this

OLD ACQUAINTANCES.

day's work is done, and us 'fellows' go home by
way of the baker's and butcher's -yum yum !"
But when the day was over, and they started
home, the boy was not pleased to see a big,
brawny stranger dogging their footsteps. He

turned into several by-streets, in order to make
perfectly sure the strange man was following
him; yes, it was quite clear; there could be
no mistake about it. When he stopped at the
baker's and looked over his shoulder, there the

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

man was, so near that he hurried off without
the bread he had come to buy. The same thing
was repeated at the butcher's. The bootblack
was almost frightened.
"-This won't do," said he to the dog. "That
there man knows about that there fifty cents.
Us fellows has got to dodge."
Yet, dodge as they would, and did, when they
reached home, there was the big stranger close
behind them. The boy went in, the dog at his
heels, and drew the door fast behind him.
"There's the money," said he, laying it upon
the table. He can have it, if he's half as
hungry as we've been this day, Crink. But I
misdoubts it's the money he's wantin'. Here,
sir, you creep right under there." The dog
crept behind a box in the corner, and the boy
threw over him the clothes that had made their
common bed. He had scarcely done so when a
knock sounded upon the door. It was a loud
knock, as though made by a strong hand. He
went at once and opened the door. Just as he
thought, there stood the man who had been
following him. He was a big, brown fellow,
and wore a suit of country jeans. His face was
tanned, and his beard long and bushy; yet, to

OLD ACQUAINTANCES.

the bootblack's keen eye something appeared
that was not cruelty, by any means. Still, he
considered, it might be as well to be cautious.
He put on his very bravest air as he demanded:
"Well, now, what's wanted here ? "
The visitor pushed his hat back, and mopped
his brow, trying the while to peep into the room.
The boy was as determined that he should not
do so as the man was to see.
Have you," said he, hesitating, have you
seen a a dog ? "
Many's the one, pard," said the bootblack,
as bravely as he could; for somehow he in-
stinctively felt that, at last, the parting, which
he had ever feared must sooner or later come,
was at hand. His heart was thumping like a
sledge-hammer, though he stood bravely in the
doorway, a hand on either lintel, watching the
face of the man before him.
I mean," said the stranger, "or, I thought,
- well, I was hunting for a dog, and I thought
he ran in here."
Thoughts killed a cat, once't," said the boy,
bravely again; although his heart thumped
against his ribs till it hurt him. "Thoughts
killed a cat; and now, seeing the dog didn't

THE FARRIER'S DOC

run in (indeed he had walked quite soberly in),
" s'posin' you walk out."
The man had edged himself quite well into
the room. He was looking eagerly about the
shabby little den, a tender look in his big, sad
eyes, which the bootblack couldn't quite see,
because of the broad hat he wore, and the gath-
ering gloom of the evening.
"Say, now," said the boy, didn't I tell you
as your dog wasn't here ? Will you git out now,
you "
"Baydaw ? said the man, softly, "Baydaw ?
I was so sure I saw him."
"But I tell you, no," said the boy. "Will
you git out "
And just here that graceless, seemingly
thankless cur had the ingratitude to run out
deliberately from his hiding-place, and, with
a low whine, to crouch at the stranger's feet,
and begin to try to lick his hand.
The man lifted his arm.
Don't you tetch him The bootblack was
almost at the stranger's throat. "Don't you
dare to hit him, you, else I'll fight you, if I git
my head broke. Don't you lay a finger to him.
He ain't had nothing' but licks, and bruises, and

OLD ACQUAINTANCES.

scaldin's; and, if you've come here to worrit
him, you'd best git out afore I bust your head
for you, and don't you furgit it, nuther."
He was crying; crying aloud, not in a shamed
way at all; he was weak and faint with hunger,

and this cur was all that he had. He wasn't at
all ashamed of his tears; though, if he had not
been crying, perhaps he might have seen that
the man was softly patting the head of the poor
stray, and was calling him "Baydaw," in a

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

tender way, and that the cur was whimpering
delighted recognition in true dog fashion.
"He ain't got no friends," the boy said, bro-
kenly, between his sobs; "he ain't got nobody
but jist me; but danged if I don't stand to
him. There and there."
He was pounding the great shoulders stooped
over the stray in right royal defence.
The man had not spoken to the boy since the
dog's appearance from under the bedclothes;
but now he straightened himself up, and took
the Fellow's arm in his strong grasp, and held it.
See here, now, sonny," said he, I wouldn't
hit that dog, nor abuse it, not for all the money
in this here town, and I reckon there's consid-
er'ble. You listen to me a minute; let me come
in and talk to you, after I've I've seen -
him."
And, without waiting for further permission,
the farrier, for it was the farrier, went in, and
seated himself upon the box behind which the
dog had been hiding. He didn't say anything
at first, but just stroked the dog's head, and
sighed, and listened to the boy sobbing. Then,
when the sound of the sobs had ceased, he
began to talk.

OLD ACQUAINTANCES.

I'm mighty glad to find him," said he. "I
reckon I've a-mighty nigh hunted the state over
for him. Baydaw, old boy, we'll be goin' home,
now."
No, you won't," said the bootblack. He's
my dog, now. I rescued him. They was about
to kill him, and he was crippled, and lame, and
hurt all over; and he run to me, and I rescued
him, and he's mine."
Yes, yes," said the farrier; he's yours, if
you claim him." And all the while, through
the good farrier's brain was running a text,
something about naked, and ye took me in,
hungry, and ye fed me," and he was vaguely
wondering if it wouldn't apply to dogs, too,
since they were creatures of God's creating.
" He's yours, if you claim him, sonny; but wait
till I tell you about the little boy that owned
him, and that loved him mightily, and that sent
for me when he was a-dyin', and told me to
take care of him. And of the folks back there,
the little fellow's folks, that would give a lot to
get hold of him, they loved him so for the little
fellow's having loved him, and how anxious they
be to have him back, and, then, if you say you
want to keep him, I'll say no more,"

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

The bootblack was listening intently; he had
always believed the dog had been a pet, it had
responded so readily to that first word of sym-
pathy. Still, he wasn't ready to part with
him.
If he was left to your care," said he, "how
come he was running' wild over the country,
starved like, and with his hair all shaved off,
and the boys rockin' of him, and calling' of him
'mad dog?' Seems like you wasn't takin' such
mighty good care of him then."
The farrier sighed.
"See here, now," said he, "you haven't had
your supper yet, and neither has the dog. You
both come with me. After we've had supper
I'm coming back here, and tell you all about
it, and then I'm a-goin' to leave you be till
to-morrow. You may think about it to-night,
after I've told you, and to-morrow we'll see
what you think. You're to do just as you
please about it; because you have got a claim:
you took him in and keered for him. You
saved his life. It ain't the first time it's been
saved, but it gives you a claim, and I mean to
respect it. Come, now."
The boy looked up:

OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 65

He's all I've got," said he. He's all the
friend I've got in the world; him and me was
- was sort o' -fellows."
And the farrier could scarcely carry the boy
off to his supper for the tears that blinded his
eyes.

VIII.

TO THE GREEN HILLS.

IT was a great pity the bootblack had not
much appetite that evening, for it was a goodly
meal the farrier ordered at the little restaurant
around the corner of a quiet street not far
away. There were mealy potatoes and fresh
yellow butter, and a steaming steak with savory
onions, and a pudding. But somehow the boy's
hunger was gone. Baydaw, as we must call
him again, sat on his haunches, between the
two, watching with happy eyes first one and
then the other, and wagging his tail whenever
his old master put out his hand to stroke his
yellow coat. The farrier did most of the talk-
ing. The boy watched him, much the same as
he had watched the little lady in gray who had
helped him to rescue the dog that day in
August. He was a fine judge of faces; and a
man's manner soon opened the lad's eyes as to

TO THE GREEN HILLS.

the manner of the man's character. He was
not long in making out, in a perfectly satisfac-
tory way to his own mind, that the farrier
" would do." The knowledge gave him a great
heartache, however; for with it came also the
reflection that he ought honestly to turn the
dog over to his proper owner.
When the meal was finished, and the boot-
black had gathered up a bountiful repast for
the dog, the two went back to the little house
that had made a pretense of a home for the
bootblack.
"Don't light your candle yet," said the
smith. It is a fine moonlight, and we'll just
sit here in the door and talk a bit."
So they did; though it was the farrier who
did most of the talking.
"Now that there dog," said he, "come
a-mighty nigh a-bein' drowned once't," and then
he told the story of the little boy who had inter-
ceded in the cur's behalf. He told all about
the visits to the shop, all about his own lonely
life, his house that had neither wife nor chil-
dren to make it glad, and how the dog had been
like a human being for company after the little
boy went away.

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

"He give it to me," said he. "He sent for
me when he was dyin' and give it back to me;
because he allowed as I'd be good to it, and
love it because it had been his dog. And I
meant to, Lord love you, I meant to. But you
see it was this way."
Then he told how he was called away one
morning to see a sick brother at a little town
two miles distant, how the brother died, and he
himself was taken sick with the same disease,
and did not know his name for two whole
weeks. And how the dog had been left at
home guarding the shop; how he must have
waited and waited, almost have starved to
death; for the big house on the hill was closed,
and the owners gone away, else he had been
looked after. And how, at last, he must have
left and wandered on until he came to the town
where the bootblack had rescued him from the
mob of boys. Then he told of the pleasant
village in which he lived, and of the beautiful
country around. Green hills that look down
upon the blooming valleys, and rivers that flow
right along," said he.
"Rivers that flow right along;" the boot-
black, born and brought up in the city's dusty

TO THE GREEN HILLS.

heart, had heard of them, the beautiful rivers,
and the green hills that looked down upon
them; he had heard of them -dreamed of
them sometimes, upon his pallet of old rags, or
in his empty chair on the pavement, in the hot
sun of a summer's day. Dreamed of these
beautiful things that a dog might have, but not
a boy alas for it !
He's the only friend I've got," he said,
when they had sat silent a moment, each face
showing distinct in the moonlight, the dog
curled up at their feet, unconscious that his
own destiny was being swung in the balance.
He's the only friend I've got, that there
dog is, and we're fellows. Him and me is
fellows; we ain't got nobody but jist one
another ; least, I ain't." There was a silence
again; then the boy said: "They'll be good
to him, them there folks o' the little kid's ?"
"Good? They'd give a hundred dollars to
have him in their kennel this minute, they
would," said the smith.
"It seems," said the bootblack, "as though
some o' his folks had died, and left him a lump.
I heard of a boy like that once; but I never
knowed if 'twas true. Such a thing don't

THE FARRIER'S DOG.

happen often, I reckin. And now it has hap-
pened to a dog. I'd ought to let him go, I
know. The boys rock him, and he don't git
enough to eat always. And it's hot, mighty
hot, here. And there ain't no 'rivers that flow,'
and all that. And I reckin I don't deserve him
nohow; because once I didn't divide fair when
we was both hungry. I took half a pone more'n
I give him, I was that hungry. And there
he'll git enough, always enough to eat, and
a good bed to sleep in. Maybe the crink'll
come back to his tail real good. I'd ought to
let him go -"
He was silent, watching the moonlight where
it fell upon a heap of rubbish, old glass, ashes,
and tin cans. How they glimmered and shone;
yet he knew that in the daylight the sun made
that heap a sickening thing; hot, and full of
unhealthy odors.
You're to do just as you like," said the
farrier, as though he didn't know, from the
moment he looked into the boy's face, just what
he would do. There are some open faces, like
the boy's, behind which there is always an hon-
est, unselfish heart, you may be sure of that.
The boy didn't notice the interruption. He

57))

SHE'S THE ONLY FRIEND I'VE GOT.'"

TO THE GREEN HILLS.

was making comparisons: here was a rubbish
heap, the hot sun in summer, and the biting
wind in winter, the empty cupboard, the dry
crust, the rocks, and the taunts of the street
gamins. Yonder, where he might go, this good
dog of his, was food in plenty, a bed, and some-
how, it rang in his ears, what the farrier had
said about the hills and the rivers : "the rivers
that flow right along."
"He's the only friend I've got; and-we
are fellows."
The bootblack buried his little face in his
arms, crossed upon his knees.
"There, there, then," said the farrier, "we'll
say no more about it. If you're fond of him
you'll do the best you can by him, and I reckon
the little one would be satisfied if he knew;
maybe he does know; it ain't for me to say."
The bootblack lifted his head. He was a
lonely little fellow; he had always been lonely.
In all his poor little life he had never had any-
thing to love until this yellow cur had drifted
into his life upon the waters of misfortune.
Alas for it that struggling humanity, innocent
childhood, should be reduced to the love of a
dog.

THE FARRIER S DOG.

The boy straightened himself, and looked the
farrier in the eye:
I ain't the boy," said he, "to keep a good
dog out of a good home. You take him along.
Maybe the little kid what loved him does know
about it. If he does, I'd like him to know I
give him up for his good. You take him
along."
The farrier rose, and shook himself, and
called to the dog stretched out in the silver
moonlight:
"Baydaw, come, sir!" The dog rose, and
shook himself. The boy rose, too : there was
going to be a parting. The boy didn't like that.
He turned his back, and, without looking at his
old friend, he said that the farrier could just go
out that other door, and he reckoned the dog
would follow.
He did so. He understood that the boy did
not want to have a scene, and he thought him-
self that was the best thing to do.
I reckon now," he told himself, as he passed
down the pavement, with Baydaw at his heels,
"I reckon now I'm making a great goose of
myself over a dog." He turned, and looked
back. The boy was standing where he had left

TO THE GREEN HILLS.

him, a lonely little figure in the great waste of
the city, the boy who had rescued the dog. He
wondered if some day some good heart would
not come along that way and rescue the boy.
Then the good farrier stopped : there was an
empty chair at his place, there was always din-
ner enough for two, there was a bed that no-
body occupied, and the old shop would be less
dreary for a young face to shine there. There
are many, many young faces in the city, faces
that might shine in the old shop, but that would
grow hard and grimy with the sin of the city.
One less would never be noticed, but what a
difference it would make to the owner of the
face. The good farrier looked again at the des-
olate little figure standing before the open door
in the moonlight. Then he strode swiftly back,
and confronted the astonished boy :
I say, there; dang it all! you come, too."
And, an hour later, they three started for the
green hills, and the rivers that flow right along:
the farrier, the dog, and his fellow.

THE END.

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